Preface

 

Before anyone reads this, I want to make sure you understand it is a work of fiction - in every aspect.

Yes, I used political ideology to create the inherent conflict. Without it, the non-consensual bondage, cruelty, torment, and humiliation wouldn't make a lot of sense. In this case, I made the conservative side the aggressors, and the liberal side the victims. I had to choose one over the other, so I went this way. I could have just as easily reversed the roles.

So, if you are offended that I made the Republican side the kidnappers, or that I portrayed the Democrats as victims, or that you felt that I was trying to make out the Republicans as vicious and mean-spirited - relax. I'm not trying to make a political statement. I'm not trying to brainwash anyone. I don't have a political agenda.

This is nothing more than a dirty book that required its characters to have a motivation to go to the extreme of kidnapping a woman, tying her up, and tormenting her mercilessly. I hope you remember that the politics expressed herein - just like the kidnapping, the bondage, the torture, and the humiliation - are all flights of fancy. None of it should be taken seriously or - and I can't stress this enough - ever acted out. The events I've described are heinous crimes that must remain in the recesses of our minds, the pages of books, and perhaps - if all parties consent to it - the realm of fictional film.

I hope you can enjoy the story.

J.M Sauvage

 

 

Chapter 1 - Protesting the Protesters

 

"Defund the police! Defund the police!" The camera panned around to show people - mostly younger - walking through the streets holding signs up as they chanted. The group was more or less equally-divided by both gender and race. There did not appear to be any hint of violence going on, at least as far as the eye could see, but in the corner of the shot a small object hit the pavement with an audible clunk and then immediately started spewing white smoke. Protesters scattered, and the scene grew more distant as the cameraman retreated.

"So, we can only speculate," evening newscaster Brooke Kellar said over the images, "but it appears that police have launched smoke grenades at peaceful protesters. We don't know if they contained tear gas or any other agent, but clearly the authorities are worried about the protest getting out of hand." The live shot ended and was replaced by Miss Kellar sitting at her anchor news desk. She was a pretty blonde woman with shoulder-length hair, a round face, and pert lips that seemed to move far more than the amount required to form the words she spoke. She was aware of how many men watched her news program solely because they were fascinated by those lips, and most likely spent her entire show fantasizing about what part of their anatomy they should be caressing and kissing.

Brooke didn't care. She was getting ratings, and that meant that she could use her position to ensure that the conservative morons in this country got educated. They were the damned idiot fringe of society, and she felt obligated to explain to these inbred high-school dropouts just how dumb they were to be on the wrong side of history.

"I find it amazing," she continued, "that the idiot Republican governor of this state thinks that peaceful protests meant to bring about positive change deserve to be tear gassed. I find it totally disgusting that these deplorable scumbags want to put down lawful, legal, and valid protests! What is wrong with them? They want nothing more than to return to the 1950's, when white males were entirely in charge, women served them, Hispanics tended to their lawns, and African-Americans stepped off the sidewalk when they passed! Homosexuals didn't exist, and if they made a peep they got their heads beaten in by the police or by righteous religious mobs!

"News flash - those days are over! We are the intelligent people in this country, and we're finally going to fix this country. You are either on our side or you'll be swept away as one of the useless leeches of society, and in a hundred years people will look back on your kind with the same disdain they had for slavery!"

She took a breath. Brooke had a penchant for getting over-excited to the point of saying something really nasty, and she couldn't do that on network television. She could lecture, she could insult, she could demean, but she couldn't tell these people what they really were - useless bigots who didn't belong in this country with its newly-found sense of moral justice.

"If you feel that these peaceful, reasonable protests are somehow wrong, you need to step back and think about your positions, your thoughts and feelings towards others, and your approach to life. Living like some people are beneath you, or don't have the same rights as you, is wrong. Completely wrong. It is a shame that I even have to say it, but when you see the people decrying those that are searching for justice, it's clear that it hasn't been said enough. You are either on the right side of history or you don't deserve to live in this country.

"I'm Brooke Kellar and this has been The Last Word. Tomorrow, we'll travel to the Mountain Diner in Callotachee County talk to some of the people who are saying these protests are illegal, and we'll try our best to talk some sense into them. Watch it live. Good night."

She did the obligatory paper shuffling and notation that seemed to end every news program until the director yelled cut. Brooke then stood, removed her mic, and headed towards her dressing room. People smiled and offered congratulations on another great show. She appreciated them; they were the behind-the-scenes people who worked hard so that the intellectuals of the world - she knew it was a bit arrogant to consider herself one of those, but it was totally true - to tell everyone what was right and what was wrong.

She cleaned up quickly while watching the tape of her show. It was something she always did for a lot of reasons. She needed to make sure she came across properly - angry and righteous, but not over the top. Also, she studied her appearance. It was of note that Brooke had selected a desk that clearly showed her ample bosom but not her slightly plump tummy. She wasn't fat at all - about a size 10 in most cases - but she sure wasn't a swimsuit model. Her tits, though, were impressive - natural 36EEs. Men lusted after them and women glared at her upon seeing them, which all added up to ratings. She wouldn't deny that habitually wearing the proper blouse had ensured she got what she wanted more than a few times. Brooke's biggest issue after that was finding bras that could comfortably contain her massive chest.

The problem with them was that too many guys paid too much attention for her for the wrong reasons. She was smart and aggressive, but men didn't care about that when they locked their eyes on her cleavage while trying to follow what she was talking about. The few that hit on her had no idea just how far off the mark they were. She wasn't a virgin, but she found sex messy, kind of painful, and a fairly unnecessary endeavor. Once in a great while she masturbated, but other than the momentary burst of pleasure, she found the whole thing kind of worthless. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had actual sex, and she really didn't care.

Tomorrow, she would be departing early to do the interviews she had just announced at the end of her show. The morons that her producers had contacted believed that they would somehow be able to debate her on the merits of progressive idealism compared to their conservative nonsense. She chuckled to herself. They weren't smart enough to work for the people that worked for her, let alone challenge her intellect.

She'd stomp on them, embarrass them, and with a few edits here and there, make them look like the useless unwashed idiots they were. It felt good to do so and, more importantly, she was right in doing it.

She headed out to her Mercedes to head home and get a good night's rest.

***

Marjorie sat in her living room with her husband, Dave. They stared at the TV, their mouths thin lines with rage as this bitch Brooke Kellar railed on about how the true patriots in America were some sort of equivalent of evil Nazis while these frigging gang-bangers and degenerate liberals lived off of their taxes, expected free this and free that, and still bitched and moaned that they had no "safe space" to be all woke and to change gender every 20 minutes.

A quick knock sounded at the door, but before either could respond, it opened. Lauren and Russell, their next-door neighbors, entered unbidden, which was normal for them. They were probably just as angry as Marjorie and Dave and needed to vent. They stood silently as well, waiting for this latest edition of the libtard news to end before Russell spoke.

"That stupid cunt! Does she hear herself? Does she understand what she's doing to this country with her bullshit?"

"No," Marjorie answered. "She has no idea about history, no perspective on reality. She's just a fucking liberal entitled bitch who forgets that we are the tough ones. They think they're so smart."

"Yup," Lauren agreed. "And I'm getting sick of it." Dave said nothing, but that meant he was thinking of something.

"We're all sick of it, but even idiots like her have free speech," Russell answered. "There's not a lot we can do to stop her from spreading her bullshit propaganda." Dave went to the kitchen and returned with four beers as Lauren and Russell sat down in the couch opposite of their hosts.

"Maybe there is," Dave said quietly as if a thought was forming.

"Maybe there's what?" his wife asked.

"A way to shut her up," he replied more firmly.

"You mean shut her up - for good?" Lauren asked. "I'm not doing anything like that."

"No, no. It's not time for that, not yet. But I'm pretty sure we can get her to change her tune or at least stop spreading all the lies."

"How?" Now the other three were intrigued.

"That interview tomorrow. She said it would be live in Callotachee."

"Yeah. So?"

"So her studio is in New York. She kinda has to come right through here on Pullman Road to get there unless she wants to drive around the mountain, and that would add three hours to her trip." Dave's eyes were lit up now. He really thought he was onto something.

"Probably. But so what?" Lauren protested. "What do you want to do, throw rocks at her van as it goes by?"

"Nope." He grabbed his laptop and opened some links. "I've done a lot of research on this bitch. She's snooty, too good for anyone. She bragged that she likes to drive herself in her Mercedes Maybach to on-site interviews because she likes the peace and quiet. And it won't be hard to spot a German muscle car around here."

They all nodded, and Marjorie spoke. "Great, but that still doesn't really help us. Even if we find her - yeah, we probably could - all we're going to do is scratch or dent her precious car, and that'll be the lead on her next show. 'Conservatives Ruined the Paint Job on my Mercedes.'"

"We're not going to bump her car. We're going to take her." The room was silent at hearing Dave's plan, so he continued. "We're going to have to break some laws, not to mention the higher laws of the church and the Bible, but I'd say it's worth it if it's for a good cause. What do you guys think?"

They looked at each other, trying to gauge how much interest was in the room. That no one had immediately rejected the idea was something in itself; that meant it was being considered. It was serious, but as far as they were concerned, they were in a war with people who were, either unwittingly or maliciously, trying to destroy the greatest country the planet had ever seen, and that was something to be taken seriously.

After a minute, arched eyebrows led to shrugs, which led to tiny smiles, which led to gentle nods. When a consensus had been reached, they all sat back in their chairs. "OK. Looks like we're all in. What's the plan?"

"Fucking A," Dave said, and started outlining exactly how they were going to kidnap and deprogram the liberal Brooke Kellar.

***

Brooke checked her GPS. Probably another hour to the restaurant where they would do the interview of the Neanderthal conservatives. She shifted in the leather seat of her S560 Maybach, wishing she had stopped for a bathroom break before driving into this backwoods wasteland. She hadn't seen so much as a gas station for 15 miles, and suspected that would not change for some time. She should be able to hold it, but if she saw anything that looked like it might have a bathroom, she was going to stop - no matter how disgusting the place was. She was certain that these inbred dirt farmers didn't bother to wash their outhouses.

Well, she was insulated from such repulsive grime by the luxurious interior of her beautiful car. Over $200,000 dollars had gone into the crafting of the interior, the 12-cylinder engine, and the divine handling. If it hadn't just finished drizzling, she would have opened the moonroof and enjoyed the mountain air.

Fuck!

She jammed on the brakes as some shitheel in a Ford POS pickup truck pulled onto the roadway right in front of her at about 12 miles an hour from some dirt trail. That was bad enough, but he planted himself squarely in the middle of the road so she couldn't go around him.

Brooke leaned on the horn. "Come on, you fucking ass hole!" It was as if the redneck was deaf and didn't have rear view mirrors, because he didn't respond in the least. Brooke, too angry to worry about her finish, pretty much planted herself on his rusty bumper, flashing her bright lights and blaring the horn non-stop. Still nothing.

She was too preoccupied with the dick in front of her to notice the second pickup roaring up behind her until it was as close to her bumper as she was to the truck in front of her. Now alarm bells started going off in her head. These rednecks might be completely ignorant, but they probably liked their souped-up jalopies and were just smart enough to know that a Maybach was worth more than they would earn in four lifetimes.

"Call Producer," she said loudly to the car, initiating the phone to dial Jerry. After a few seconds, however, the car responded: "No cellular service."

Shit. "Call 911."

"No cellular service."

"Goddamn car!" If she couldn't call anyone, she was in real trouble. She determined that, regardless of any damage, she'd ram through the fucker in front of her. Once she got passed him, these shitty Fords wouldn't stand a chance of catching her. She eased off the gas to make some space for maneuvering.

The problem was, as she slowed, so did the truck in front of her, until they were barely crawling. Brooke knew that stopping would seal her fate, so she jammed the accelerator down and pushed into the bumper in front of her. The power of her vehicle forced the pickup truck to accelerate a little, but it was a big, heavy truck, so she could barely get the two vehicles up to 25 miles an hour before the wheels started spinning on the wet roadway.

OK. Time to go for it. She had to try something - sooner or later she'd be squeezed to a stop. Taking a deep breath, she slowed down, putting a little space between her and the car in front of her, and then feinted left. The pickup moved slightly that way, at which time she reversed the wheel and floored it to go around on the right. She'd have to put her right tires in the dirt, but figured it would be firm and the car had enough power to get through it.

She was wrong. The second her front tire left the pavement, it sunk several inches into loose dirt. She was already at full acceleration, but when the rear wheel hit the same mess, she went from 30 to zero fast enough to throw her against her seatbelt.

The truck in front of her pulled slightly ahead of her and turned to block her forward route, while the truck behind her hit her gently to ensure she had no path in that direction. Still, Brooke jammed the car into reverse and floored it, but the car didn't move an inch. She wasn't going anywhere, so Brooke ensured that the doors were locked slouched down in her seat.

Two men got out of the truck in front of her and approached the driver's window. She held her hand up to her face; why, she wasn't sure, but she only lowered it when she heard a tap on the window. It was one of the men tapping the butt of a pistol on the glass.

"Open up, bitch." Brooke, suddenly too afraid to even move, simply looked at him, jumping when he hit the window harder. "Now!" She thought about it, but remembered she had paid extra for the "Executive Package" that included bullet-proof glass to preclude a kidnapping. Suppressing a smile that might enrage the goobers more, she simply shook her head and made a show of picking up her phone and dialing. Still no cell service, but maybe she could make them think she had a satellite phone or something and scare them away.

That plan died when the second man held up a Jaws-of-Life tool. She knew what one was from her early days of covering car accidents back at her first news station, and had no doubt that it would tear her car apart. The man nodded as if knowing he had just called her bluff.

"There's no cell service here, and if I have to use this I'm gonna be real pissed." Brooke noticed two other bodies exit the vehicle behind her, and knew she was fucked. Her only chance was to just give them the car and hope they didn't hurt her, so she nodded and, with a shaking hand, unlocked the car and got out.

"Please don't hurt me! You can have the car and everything in it. Just don't hurt me." The two men just looked at her until she wondered what they were doing when she felt hands grab her arms from behind. Surprised, she was unable to put up much resistance as they were pulled together behind her.

"You don't have to do this! I'm not going to fight you!" She didn't resist, hoping that being passive would prove that she wasn't a threat until she felt coarse rope being wrapped around her wrists.

"No! Don't tie me up! I'm not going to fight you!"

"We know that," the man with the gun said. The cord was pulled very tight before being knotted in place, and then she felt a second rope wrapping around her arms just above her elbows. "Oh my god, don't! Pl-" The word died a quick death as a flash of red and black was pulled over her head and a huge ball was crammed into her mouth. As one of her assailants pulled the rope around her elbows taut until the two joints touched, the other secured the buckle behind her head so tightly that the leather strap cut deeply into her cheeks. Brooke's shoulders protested as the joints were stretched, and she squealed into the gag.